Lingering Suites
by tuesday blue
Summary: A collection of scenes and interludes glimpsed through the eyes of Raven. Companion to Rush.


Fire Sign

_A companion to and part of the Rush collection (franchise), and presented to Ravy, for her amusement and also to assuage the "utter disappointment" and wish her a very merry Christmas. Indeed._

Spot knows the shit has officially hit the fan when Ray coolly walks through a door in front of him and then just as coolly slams the door behind her and in his face. Being Spot Conlon, he sneers, but says nothing. He simply opens the door for a second time and follows her as she strides boldly and quickly forward away from the theatre in her four and a half inch heels. Whatever he's said, whatever he's done, whatever he's been before does not matter. He has no saving grace, for she is angry with him. And when she is angry, all past beauties and keepsake moments are temporarily erased from her mind. When she is angry, she doesn't know him. All signs of attachment and affection are forgone and thrown into the proverbial hearth fire. They are simply two strangers walking down Carmine Street side by side under different umbrellas as rain falls all around them.

In silence, she turns corners, crosses streets, and weaves an intricate, maze like path throughout the Lower East Side. Spot knows that she's taking the long way back home and that she'd doing it because she is well aware of how much it annoys him. The silent treatment is her vengeful gift to him for the 10 blocks she walks before stopping to rummage through her purse and subsequently hail a cab. One stops before her in a near screeching halt, its tires throwing sludge ridden water over her shoes and onto the hem of her new dress. Ray looks down at her dress, her face falling a bit and revealing the strain of another crap day, and Spot for a moment, forgets that anything has ever been wrong between them and wants only to comfort her. Yet, she only brushes the mud off with her hand and gets into the awaiting cab. To his surprise, once inside, she makes no other move but to scoot over on the seat, allowing him to climb in and sit beside her. Still mute, Spot can take her hint, subtle only in tone and leans forward to inform the cab driver of their destination. Ray does not look at him. She only gazes forlornly out of the window and through the rain at the blurred lights lining the streets they drive down.

When the cab pulls to another jarring stop in front of his building, Raven snaps out of her trance-like state and simply opens the door and exits the cab. Spot scowls at how much she has just taken him for granted and hates his own reliability as he pays the driver too much and struggles to catch up with her. Luckily, his legs are longer and in a few quick steps, he's beside and then in front of her, opening the door for her to walk through. But, Raven is consistently not in tune with social graces, smiles warmly at the doorman instead of her escort and unaffectedly continues on her way.

"Night Ernie," Spot mumbles as the doorman tips his hat.

As the elevator goes up higher and higher to his 9th story loft, the silence between the two grows thicker. It shows no sign of decreasing or breaking any time soon, and Spot's heart breaks a bit more. But he doesn't let it show because he's not wired that way. Only cool blue blood flows through his veins. In a royal show of effort, Spot extends his own hand of peace and rubs it against the small of Ray's back. For a moment, he believes he's won her back over to his side. Her shoulders have rounded slightly and her expression softened. Spot smiles and makes two slow circles with his hand over her dress.

He is waiting for her to look over her right shoulder and give him that small grin that will restore hope within him and make him look forward to the make-up romp in their bed. He has seen it a million times and never grows tired of it. His excitement is mounting, yet, before his victory celebration commences in his head, her posture has stiffened once more and his truce is put down as ignored as she simply clears her throat and continues to stare blankly forward at her own reflection in the shiny elevator doors. Her hands clutch the black handle of her Gucci bag instead of reaching out for his. He is once more shit out of luck. Hope drains from him and there is only one word to properly describe his thoughts.

Fuck.

Once the elevator chimes that it has reached its destination and the doors open, Ray steps out without hesitation. She is pulling her key from her purse as she is walking so as not to offer up any opportune moment such as the one her standing beside their door, rummaging for her key would present. She knows better. Another half moment and she's inside, throwing her coat on the back of a chair and kicking off her shoes. Retreating into the darkness of the bedroom, only her fleeting back is in sight when Spot comes inside. He throws his keys onto the table near the door, and his own coat discarded, rolls up his sleeves and runs both hands through his hair.

On one hand, he wants to march into that bedroom and hand Ray a large piece of his mind on a silver platter via a good verbal lashing. On the other, he wants to chose the easy way out and ignore her or any problem she may present. He wants to retire to his easel with a beer and a smoke and lose himself and his worries in his painting. But then again, on the other hand, a small, nagging voice begs him to play the part of a good boyfriend and human being and try to patch things up with the one he's potentially hurt. He sees the light come on in his bedroom and her shadow cross the threshold of the doorway. He bites his bottom lip as wistful waves of nostalgia and affection gnaw at his fortified will. But Spot Conlon doesn't have three hands.

Therefore, he chooses the path of least resistance and plods shoeless over to his corner studio, where he picks up a brush and smears blue paint over his troubles. He lights a cigarette and feels something lift off of his chest as he exhales and watches the smoke curl around his painting. Suddenly, everything's haze and azure. Placid. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her creep into his vision. She still ever silent, but deliberately paying attention to him this time. In the doorway of the kitchen, she stands staring. Waiting for him to notice her. For him to make some kind of comment. What kind, she doesn't care. Sarcastic, bitter, angry, or apologetic – she's waiting with a downfallen look upon her face for some word from him so that she can execute the next phase of her attack.

And he humours her. But not before he delays a bit.

"Don't look at me hurt like that. I don't know what to do with you when you're like that." Despite the significance the words carry, he presents it as merely an offhand comment – but it's the best he knows how to do given the present circumstance. Spot continues painting, dabbing at his canvas as though the entire situation were not present. Were not standing in front of his face in the form of a girl attired in his shirt and her own too heavy disappointment. He hurts her so easily. She breaks so easily, but she never tells. On his canvas is a face painted in blue. The very swollen sad tone of it reflects her in dark eyes and colours her vulnerable. She's over the first stage and now her supremely fortified, rock hard barrier is down. The only thing she wants him to do is put down his stupid paintbrush and cross the four step mile over to her. She wants him to for once relent and take her in his arms and apologize to her. And then to fill her up with remorseful words and sugared promises.

None of which he does, no matter how much she hopes he will and wills him to. Therefore, to get his attention and perhaps shock him back into reality, she strides up to a empty bottle of Antinori 2000 Solaia and with wordless deliberateness takes it and throws it onto the ground. The loud crash of broken glass makes him cringe for a moment. He closes his eyes briefly and considers raising his voice to tell her to get the hell out. But he knows the value of the good that would do equates to none. Therefore, as many times before, he holds his tongue and pretends he does not notice. Ah yes, the silence of Stage One is forgone and she had slid effortlessly into Stage Two. Stage Two is vulnerability masked by acts of violence and destruction.

"Why won't you speak to me?" she asks after some time, when his reaction to her small tantrum has not been what she expected. Stage three is verbal. It pleads. This is the hardest part for him. Spot does not like Ray when she's desperate. It does not become her. So, Spot continues painting. Now is not the time for heroism, he knows. No. So, in lieu of heroism, he attempts conversation. He speaks to her, just as she wants him to do. "What was wrong with your friend earlier today?" Spot is surprised as hell when she actually responds.

"She gets like that sometimes." Her voice is cold and monotone. She is repeating information to him, in hopes that it will open him up to something a bit more important. Her eyes remain steely and narrowed as she bites off hangnail. Spot smiles. He knows her well. She's turpentine and cigarettes. French vanilla venom with a bittersweet aftertaste. And she never changes.

"Mmm. She gets like that sometimes." He scoffs and lights another cigarette. With it clenched in his teeth, and his eyes still focused on the painted surface before him, he adds, "Must be a shitload of fun for old Jack. A real fucking blast." He's using his usual casual, flippant, sarcasm. He's eased back into habit and routine. Back into normality because he thinks that everything is alright and does not realize how foolish it is for him to think such a thing so early.

"Shut up." Ray's tone bears unmistakable sharpness as she tries to cut at him with words alone. "At least he knows that he loves her." The words roll off of her tongue like daggers, each spat out in slow deliverance and deliberate in intention. In response, Spot can only mutter one smart remark through his teeth.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"You know what it means," she retorts and turns her head away.

"No Raven," his tone matches the malevolence in her own voice. "I don't think I do. I'm too fucking stupid. Why don't you explain it to me?"

"Oh, explain it? At least Jack isn't too hung up over his ex girlfriend to realize that he's got something pretty damn good sitting right in front of his face." Spot cringes at her response. He's asked for too much. He's fucked up royally on top of his earlier mishap. She's punishing him now like a child who's misbehaved one too many times. "Yeah, she really fucked you over well, huh? Well, who cares? _I'm_ here, God damn it. Does that make any difference to you? Does it? Probably not. And if it did, you wouldn't tell me. It's not like you would give a rat's ass if I walked out your door right now and never came back through it. But fuck me, I'll probably stay. Because I'm weak like that, and damn it, I don't know why I love you, but I do. God fucking forbid you even feel a fraction of that for me."

Her face changes yet again. She's no longer playing the tough girl. The metropolitan Amazonian. The immovable stone. Now she's weakened and true, and Spot can see it written all over her pretty little made up face. Stage four. The crumbling dissolution. She turns to go because, as he knows, she's going to cry. No one sees Mia Raven Tortulo cry if she can damned well help it. Not him. Not anyone. As she retreats, Spot changes his mind...and his heart. Perhaps now is the time for heroism. Both for the salvation of her and of his own ass. He is a modern day knight – he enjoys waiting until the last possible minute to do his rescuing.

Once upon a second time around...

He slowly rises from his stool, carelessly flinging an umber loaded brush onto his work table. Walking toward her, he can't help but feeling a stinging in his own heart. By the time he reaches her, her tears have painted him positively hurt. He clasps her shoulder in his hand, yet she does not turn around. She's ashamed and unwilling. Therefore, he executes a more direct approach and uses both hands to turn to her face him. She's hiding her face in her hands, unwilling to show her red, tear-streaked face. Gently, he removes her veil of palms and fingers and cups her face in his hands. "Ray," he begins, his blue eyes searching her bloodshot ones. "You take one minute thing, and you blow it up until it's a veritable monster. And then, from there...suddenly every little thing I say or do after is inflated enormously out of proportion. No matter what I do or haven't done, I simply can't win because you're hurt. When you're hurt, even if I were to say the most grand, most profound declaration, I still won't win. Do you know why? Because you don't listen."

She sniffles and he tilts his head to the side in a gentler manner. "Sometimes," he continues, "You do when people speak really _loudly_ to you. But otherwise..." He laughs a bit to assuage the severity of his tone. "You just don't listen. You don't listen with your eyes or heart, and you most certainly don't pick up on the little things...those little things that I don't say with my mouth but am trying so hard to tell you. Sometimes, I wish you'd for once just...listen."

Her lip trembles a bit, and a small smile plays at the corner of her downturned lips. She throws her arms around him and embraces him. "Well," she adds in a shaky, wavering voice. "It's really hard to listen to everything else sometimes when I just want you to say the words and you can't seem to."

"Say what?" Spot asks, kissing the tops of her head. In a teasing manner, nonchalant manner he says, "You want me to say something like, 'I love you, Ray?' Is that what you want me to say? Is that all you want of me? I can do that. I love you, Ray. See? Easy." With that one small, casually said statement, Raven is won. Her grasp on him tightens twofold, and Spot, lets her hold him. He doesn't have the heart to tell her that he can barely breathe. Her happiness is worth a bit of suffering.

After she finally releases her ever so tight grip on him and her arms fall back to her sides once more, Spot crosses the room and into the kitchen he goes. Flicks on the light. From the refrigerator he grabs on bottle of Miller Light and as a habit calls out to Ray, "You want one?"

"Yeeeees," is her reply.

He smiles. It's not like Ray to refuse a beer when it's not her money that bought it. He grabs another and removes the caps from both bottles barehandedly. He walks back into the other room and offers her the bottle like a true gentleman on one knee offering a lady some grand token of his affection. She accepts with a giggle and a "thank you, sir." He sits beside her and she props her bare feet on his lap. They talk for another hour about nothing and everything of importance. One beer follows another and another, and the night is capped off by a glass of Pinot Noir shared. Ray is giggly drunk and her yawns are increasing in magnitude and volume when Spot, as his final noble act of the night, picks her up and carries her to bed. They don't make love or stay awake long enough for affection. But she does fall asleep in his arms amidst the sea of his clean white sheets. And Spot knows that, though she'll always claim otherwise, what Ray loves most is the warmth of his body against hers as they commune silently in those unconscious hours.


End file.
